


Inspired by Fanart

by AnastasiaLaMuse



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, Gen, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Tumblr
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-07
Updated: 2013-07-07
Packaged: 2017-12-17 23:36:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/873208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnastasiaLaMuse/pseuds/AnastasiaLaMuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John accepts what he thinks is the truth about Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inspired by Fanart

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [eeeeeeeeeeeeh](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/24282) by tumblr user bulecelup. 



> This was inspired by tumblr user bulecelup. The fanart is not mine, only the writing is. Originally posted on tumblr at my blog anastaslamuse.tumblr.com

For the first year he refused to acknowledge that Sherlock was dead. He cried and got upset about it, sent meaningless texts to the detective’s old phone number asking him to please not be dead, to come home. But he refused to give up on Sherlock. Sherlock had never let him down before and god knows the detective wasn’t about to now. Never the less, by the end of the first year, John had gone back to using his cane.

The second year was a lot rougher. His faith was shaken. He still texted Sherlock’s phone, begging for some sort of response. People stopped bringing up Sherlock now. He was yesterday’s news, and even though his absence spoke louder than any presence in the room, they all kept quiet about it and pitied the poor blogger who had damn near devoted his entire life to the sociopath detective.

The third year was what broke him. Sherlock had once said that, “Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains – however improbable – must be the truth.”

Well. It was impossible that Sherlock would have left John alone this long. That Sherlock would have ignored the numerous texts that John sent him in the last few years. If he was alive, he would have contacted by now – if for no other reason than to reassure John that he’d come home one day. Yet nothing had been heard from the detective. What other conclusion was John supposed to have reached by now? Despite how improbable it seemed, John had finally admitted that Sherlock was dead.

It was harder on him than anyone could have possibly imagined.

Six months he lived believing that his friend really was dead. That there was no other conclusion, no other answer; six months he lived holding that in his heart before he decided he couldn’t take it anymore.

On his way home , he got out his phone and texted Sherlock one last time.

I miss you. I really do. I miss you a lot. More than you’ll ever know. I know you won’t get this, being dead and all, but I thought I should let you know in some way. You’re smart though, you’ve probably already figured it out. –JW

I loved you. I don’t know if you knew that or not. Every day of the last three years has been a living hell. Not even because of the people who called me crazy for believing in you, but just because you weren’t there anymore. –JW

The hardest part was realizing you weren’t going to come back. That hurt more than anything. –JW

I loved you. Still do. Is that stupid? You’d probably think it is. Or maybe you wouldn’t. I guess I’ll never know now… I hate you too, for leaving me here alone. Everyone said you would. Even after you did, I still believed in you. –JW

John got out of the cab and went up to his flat; his flat that he didn’t share with anyone. That got him every time. He stood at his desk for a moment, thinking again. Hesitantly, he got his phone out. He half expected… no. He couldn’t afford to have any more hopes that the phone would light up with a message from Sherlock. “Come to Baker’s Street at once if convenient. –SH” He couldn’t tell if it hurt to think about it or if hurt was just so much of a constant in his life that he didn’t notice it anymore.

He put the phone down on the desk, sitting at it for just a minute. He checked Sherlock’s site – not like it was even up anymore, but he was allowed to check it out of habit. John glanced at the phone again. No response. Not like there would be. He opened the bottom drawer of the desk and got Sherlock’s scarf out – the one thing he had kept to remind him of Sherlock.

He stood on the stool - tying the scarf to a hook on the ceiling, then around his neck. He didn’t even take a breath in before kicking the stool out from underneath him.

At the same time, the phone went off. Who could be texting him?

John’s eyes went wide, the realization hitting him at the same time he felt the scarf tighten painfully around his neck, cutting off airflow. He clawed at his neck, scratching at his face in the process – desperate to get out of the scarf that seemed to be getting a tighter hold around his neck. All too soon, the world blurred out of existence. His hands fell to his sides. The phone went off again.

“I’ll come home. –SH”


End file.
